Where Roses Never Die

by Staalesen, Gunnar

  Håkon nodded and together they ran over to the house. He felt the handle: the door was unlocked as he had left it.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Joachim said excitedly.

  He nodded.

  ‘They were doing it! Mum and … that architect!’

  ‘Were they?’

  ‘Yes, but you saw it, didn’t you? They were screwing!’

  ‘They were scr—?’ He didn’t understand.

  ‘Your mum and dad have done it too.’

  He shook his head vehemently. ‘Noo! Never!’

  ‘So how do you think Mette and you got here? Did they buy you in a shop? Were you delivered to the door?’

  ‘No, mum said … something about a stork.’

  ‘A stork! They’re screwing, but they won’t admit it. Because that’s how it is…’ He waggled his bottom, the way they had seen the architect’s bum going up and down. ‘In and out! In and out!’

  ‘But she didn’t seem to like it, your mother didn’t.’

  ‘No…’ For a moment Joachim looked pensive. ‘It wasn’t Dad…’

  They froze. From the house they heard noises like the ones they had heard at Joachim’s. They looked at each other. Joachim nodded. ‘Listen!’ But Håkon just shook his head. ‘Not here! Never!’

  Joachim led the way into the sitting room. One of the lamps was on, and on a table there were two wine glasses, one with a drop left at the bottom, the other half-full.

  Joachim pointed to the bedroom door. But this one was closed. They stood outside with their ears to the door and listened to the sounds coming out. It was a kind of groaning. ‘Oh, oh, oh!’ But it wasn’t as muffled as at Joachim’s, and they could clearly hear there were two of them, one voice higher-pitched than the other, and then the bed creaked, like when he and Mette had been jumping on it, early one Sunday morning while their parents had been lying half-asleep beside them.

  Just like at Joachim’s they speeded up, the groaning became louder and louder, until it culminated in what sounded like a half-strangulated scream, and then everything went quiet, only a faint mumble reached their ears.

  They quickly tiptoed away from the door, as though they suspected someone was about to come out. They stood there bewildered. What should they do? There were no more houses they could go to, and they couldn’t hide at Håkon’s, not safely anyway. ‘I’m going home,’ Joachim said, making for the door. Håkon didn’t protest. Straight afterwards he was alone.

  But he didn’t go to bed. He trudged up the stairs to the first floor. There he sat in the darkness, resting his head against the wall while keeping an eye on what was happening downstairs.

  He had been sitting there half-asleep when he gave a start. What was that? Where was he? Suddenly he realised. He heard a rush of water in the pipes after someone had been to the toilet. Then he heard voices down below and recognised his mother’s. It was too far away for him to hear what they were saying, but then they came into the hall, his mother only in her dressing gown and – that was … the father of Asbjørg and Einar, fully clothed. For a moment they stood together, close, by the door to the porch. He saw Asbjørg and Einar’s father stick his hand up mum’s nice dressing gown, which she had been given for Christmas a week ago, put his arms around her waist, pull her to him and then – they kissed! For a long time. He had sat upstairs, perfectly still, scared to death they would notice him.

  But no one saw him. His mother said goodbye to Asbjørn and Einar’s father; then she quickly came back in and went into the sitting room. Håkon got up and went into his own room, clambered up into bed, stared at the dark wall and slowly subsided into such a deep sleep that when he awoke he was no longer sure whether what he had seen was a dream or not. And he definitely didn’t dare ask!

  It wasn’t until six months afterwards that he and Joachim spoke about it again, but that was because Joachim wanted to take Janne and Mette into the woods and try it themselves, Håkon with Janne, Joachim with Mette…

  41

  He glared at me sullenly. I had coaxed most of it out of him: what he and Joachim had seen at his friend’s house that night and what he had observed from the stairs at home, a few hours later.

  I said: ‘There’s a pathetic question that sports reporters always ask: How did it feel?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Most children can handle it if they catch their parents hugging or making love, so long as parents tackle it in the right way. But to see your mother being embraced by another man, right after you’ve seen Joachim’s mother in action with another neighbour … You don’t have to be a child psychologist to realise it must have been a traumatic experience, Håkon.’

  He made a movement with his head, still unwilling to continue the conversation.

  ‘Perhaps that explains why, as far as I gather, you still haven’t committed to a regular partner…?’

  No comment.

  ‘And perhaps that explains why Joachim ended up on drugs and today is one of the most emaciated veterans sitting in Nygårdsparken.’

  Håkon burst out: ‘But it wasn’t Joachim who did it!’

  ‘Did … what?’

  ‘That with Mette.’

  ‘That was a bit too fast for me, but…’ Gradually a new and perhaps even more unpleasant image began to form for me. ‘You don’t mean … that you copied the adults, do you? Children often do.’

  He nodded, and he was off again.

  It had been the middle of summer. Mette and Janne had been sitting in the sandpit playing. He and Joachim had been kicking their heels round the yard, bored. Nothing to do! Too cold to go down to Skjoldabukten to swim and all the others in the football club were on holiday. What could they do?

  Joachim had nudged him, looked him in the eye and said: ‘Remember New Year’s Eve?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘What we saw?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘I’ve been thinking … We should try! It looked such fun, didn’t it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes! It’s fun. Loads of the boys at school have been talking about it. Screwing. All the adults do it. We just have to be big enough.’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘We can take Janne and Mette into the woods and try it. Can’t we?’

  ‘Janne and Mette?’

  ‘Yes, they’re … women. They’ve got holes.’

  He stood gaping at him. Was his friend serious? Horrified, he turned away. What if anyone had heard them talking? Some of the adults?

  But it was mid-July and the houses were all quiet. Just the mothers were at home and they were probably sitting and chatting and drinking coffee. The two girls were engrossed in their work digging holes in the sand for their small plastic animals. They didn’t give them a look.

  ‘Chicken.’

  He wasn’t chicken! ‘Nooo!’

  ‘Come on then!’

  ‘But how will we … get them to come?’

  ‘We’ll say … we’ve got something nice for them.’ Joachim grinned like one of the big boys. ‘And we have, haven’t we.’

  ‘Yes…’

  Håkon still wasn’t convinced, but when Joachim grabbed his arm he went over to the sandpit, where he heard Joachim say that if the two girls came with them to the woods they’d get something nice from them.

  ‘What?’ Mette asked.

  ‘Chocolate.’

  She brightened up. ‘I love chocolate!’

  Janne looked more doubtful, but followed anyway when Joachim took Mette’s hand, helped her up and set off for the gate with her. Janne and he wandered after them.

  But it didn’t work. Not for Janne and him. When they came to the gate and Mette and Joachim were already outside, Janne planted both feet on the ground and refused to move. ‘Mummy and daddy said we should never go out of the gate.’

  ‘But…’ He looked over at Joachim and Mette, who were crossing the street now. ‘Mette and Joachim have gone out.’

  Janne had looked up at him with a defiant, sulky stare.
‘Mummy and daddy told me. Never go outside.’

  ‘But … chocolate…’

  ‘We only have sweets on Saturdays. Otherwise we’ll have holes in our teeth.’

  ‘Yes…’

  He could still remember the feeling he was left with when he saw Mette and Joachim strolling into the woods over the road. Should he run after them? But they couldn’t both … with Mette!’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Nothing. Janne went back to the sandpit and continued doing what she had been doing, as though nothing had happened. As for me … I went up to my room. Found a comic and sat looking at it. Must have been a Donald Duck or a Red Indian comic: Sølvpilen – we used to read them all the time in those days. After a while they returned. Mette and Joachim.’

  ‘A while? How long’s that?’

  ‘I have no idea. Not the foggiest.’

  ‘And what happened then?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? And your mother … Wasn’t she shocked when Mette went out?’

  ‘No, they didn’t notice. Neither her nor Joachim’s mother. Because Janne and her were together … or so they thought. And when Joachim came back asking after me, Mette was playing in the sandpit again as though nothing had happened.’

  ‘But Joachim … must have said something?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Surely you asked him?’

  ‘No, I didn’t want to say anything, and he just looked … embarrassed. Maybe it hadn’t been so easy after all. Maybe he didn’t know what to do when it came to the crunch.’

  ‘And Mette didn’t say anything?’

  ‘No. She seemed happy and content, and there was nothing that struck you about her. She even had chocolate smeared over her mouth, so she got that anyway.’

  ‘But … when you started telling me about this you said Joachim didn’t do it. You were thinking about what happened in 1977, weren’t you?’

  He looked down. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well … it struck me – several times – as everyone was searching for her, for days and weeks … I pictured Janne and me standing inside the gate. Mette and Joachim walking into the woods. But Joachim was eight years old! He could never have done anything … so nasty to Mette. I couldn’t believe that.’

  ‘So that’s why you chose not to tell any adults?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Until now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And what do you think today, with all we know about child brutality? I mean, we hear stories on the news – from America and England … The same could happen here. Children copy adults, something they’ve seen in a film, a computer game, heard big boys talking about … and then they accidentally kill someone of their own age.’

  He looked at me, desperate. ‘But then surely they would have found her? Wouldn’t they? He couldn’t have hidden her!’

  ‘You’ve thought the thought. Admit it!’

  At once tears came into his eyes. ‘She was so small. She wouldn’t have understood anything. And she came back of course.’

  ‘The first time, yes. But can you be sure he didn’t take her many times? Or at least one more time.’

  ‘No …’ he said at length, so low it was almost inaudible.

  ‘Well … I’ll ask him, of course. I’ll have to.’

  ‘Don’t say…’ He didn’t complete the sentence.

  ‘That it was you who told me? I’m afraid he’ll know. The alternative would have to be Janne. She’s married and lives in England, by the way.’

  He wasn’t interested. ‘Right.’ Then he grabbed the snow shovel and lifted it demonstratively into the air. ‘I have no time for this any longer. I have to do my job.’

  I nodded. ‘Thank you for everything you’ve told me. It’s been very useful.’

  ‘Don’t tell Mum what I’ve said.’

  ‘No, no. Not unless it’s absolutely necessary.’

  He threw me a sceptical glance, as though he didn’t believe me, but feared I would go back to Bergen and tell her everything anyway, holding nothing back.

  Then he nodded sullenly, took the shovel and went on his way.

  For my part, I discovered I had lots of time on my hands before my departure. I followed a sign pointing to Fjellstua and ended up there, at the top of Mount Aksla with a panoramic view over the town, the fjord and the islands. From Mount Sukkertoppen to Okseblåsen, or whatever the narrow rock formation in the north was called. Afterwards I went down the steps to Byparken, crossed Hellebroa Bridge and arrived at the same eatery I had visited ten years ago, to see whether the klippfisk dish they served was as good as back then. It was.

  With the taste from Sjøbua restaurant on my palate I caught the airport bus to Vigra, and from there the evening flight back to Bergen. From Flesland Airport I took a taxi directly to Nygårdsparken. The driver watched long after I went through the gates from Parkveien. He probably had his own ideas about what I was doing, and that was fine by me. I had no more time to lose. Someone had waited long enough as it was and we had never been closer to the answer than now. I could see them, walking together into the woods, Joachim and Mette, Mette and Joachim. Two small children on their way to … what? That was what I had to find out. It was now or never.

  42

  Wandering over Flagghaugen in Nygårdsparken after the onset of darkness was not something anyone would do with a light heart. On the other hand, it was much quieter there now than earlier in the day. Most of the druggies who had a fixed abode had already gathered all the ampoules they needed for the day, and they would hardly be expecting someone with a tempting wallet to appear so late at night. Others had rolled out their sleeping bags to spend the March night under the stars or under a rhododendron bush. I didn’t envy them.

  I peered between the bushes and trees, where I saw them sitting in huddles, and said gently: ‘Joachim! Joachim Bringeland! Are you there?’

  Only mumbled negative responses came back until, at the fourth or fifth attempt, a high-pitched voice squeaked: ‘Try down at Tiny’s. That’s where he’s staying for the moment…’

  ‘So you haven’t seen him here?’

  ‘Not for a few hours, no,’ came the answer from the rhododendrons.

  ‘Thank you.’

  I went down to Jonas Reins gate and tried the front door of Tiny’s hostel again. This time the door marked OFFICE. RECEPTION was ajar … I knocked so hard that the door swung open. Through the crack I met the dark eyes of Tiny sitting behind his rickety desk with an open can of beer beside him and a half-eaten kebab installation, like a failed work of art, over today’s edition of Bergensavisen.

  He belched quietly and beckoned me in. ‘Veum, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yep,’ I said.

  ‘Jokken?’

  ‘You have a good memory.’

  ‘Never forget a fizog. Handy facility to have in this line of business, to know who you can trust and who you can’t.’

  ‘Are you telling me you can trust me?’

  ‘I only said I remembered you.’ He smirked and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. He hadn’t lost any weight since I was last here, and God knows if he had changed his shirt in the few days that had passed. The one he was wearing was definitely the same filthy yellow colour.

  ‘Is Joachim in?’

  ‘He is – I think. He made an appearance an hour ago anyway, seemed pretty happy, so just go on up two floors and try the first door to the right. If he doesn’t open up, try the door. If it’s locked you’d better come down and tell me, and I’ll give you a hand.’

  I thanked him and followed his instructions. There was no need to do any fetching. Joachim was in. He didn’t open up, in fact, but when I tried the door, it was unlocked and when I went in he was sitting on a chair with an elastic band around his arm and a used syringe on the floor beside him, his head lolling back, his eyes glazed and probably beyond all communication for the next couple of hours.

  I checked his pulse, but it fe
lt relatively normal. He was breathing regularly and when I touched him he could focus well enough to recognise me, so perhaps it wasn’t going to take quite so long after all.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he mumbled before closing his eyes fully again, as if to avoid the sight of me.

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ I said, looking around.

  The room was Spartan: an unmade bed, a low table, two chairs, a sink and a worktop with a hotplate. At the back a door led to what I assumed was a toilet, in the best-case scenario a bathroom, or perhaps just a rear staircase. Scattered across the floor were various used syringes, empty boxes, an overflowing ashtray someone had apparently tried to set fire to and a well-used pipe. On the floor beside the chair he was sitting in was a pile of newspapers and magazines. There were no pictures on the walls, no books, there was no stereo and there was no TV. Joachim Bringeland lived his life in a monotonous rhythm, within the outer limits of Bergen Shopping Centre and Nygårdsparken, making sporadic forays to Torgallmenningen, where his main aim was to beg enough capital for the day’s dose and otherwise keep his head above water. It was difficult to see him as the eight-year-old, active, somewhat domineering friend who had tried to entice Håkon Misvær into the woods with his little sister, Janne, and who himself had taken Mette at least once in 1977.

  On the hotplate was a well-worn coffee jug and on the table next to it a jar of instant coffee. I filled the jug with water from the tap over the sink, put the jug on the hotplate and switched on the electricity. It didn’t take long to boil and I was soon able to serve us a mug each of gourmet coffee, Nescafé Gold-style. Gradually I managed to resuscitate him, pour coffee down him and establish a kind of contact. He swung his head and his eyes roamed, but every so often he focussed on me, as though he no longer remembered who I was or what I was doing there.

  ‘I spoke to you a few days ago,’ I said loudly, staring hard at him. ‘About the Mette Case.’

  That made him focus his eyes once again, and this time he held on, at least for a while. ‘The Mette Case…’

  ‘Yes, and now I know a great deal more than I did then. So now I want you to tell me word for word what took place between Mette and you that time in September 1977.’